mine and only mine

I've dreaded writing about this because I've treasured this refuge for so long.
But: I'm giving up my writing space, for now.
Why?
Reasons. Money. Travel. Not wanting to become stale.
I'll find a new one in 2023 but for now I've been consolidating, moving things, making Goodwill runs.
Last weekend I painted, covered up some garish decor from the previous tenant, took down my ideas cork board, and painted over pencil sketches made by a friend and collaborator a few years ago.
It is satisfying work. But I'm sad. I've spent many hours at my desk here, thinking, writing, sleeping, stalling, drinking coffee, making lists and above all yes--WRITING. At least eight stories and part of a memoir were birthed and labored over here.
I hosted a few pre-funks here, ate vegan food with my boo, stared into Zoom meetings, wished the neighbors next door were quieter.
But mostly I've treasured this quiet, private space, the hours that were mine and only mine.

done? or done-done

 With writing, especially fiction writing, I never quite know when I'm done.
"Done." Done-done.
I'm better now at stages, the wild and creative and shaggy rough draft, the first rounds of edits, then letting it all rest for awhile, like a yeasted dough. Something has to ferment in the prose, or my brain, or both. Then the return, another round of edits, and feeling around for threads, that idea or theme that emerges, reveals itself, clarifies everything, making it easy to see what stays, and what is mercilessly (but not unemotionally) excised.
So: rough draft, edits, resting, threads, edits.
And then?
I like to tinker, adding lines, removing them, seeing how they feel and read.
I ask myself questions: did I go deep enough here? Does it all make sense? Have I found something new or meaningful to say or investigate or rage about? Is there a sense of longing, understanding, wanting more?
You know when bread's done, by the baking time and aromas.
With fiction, for me, it's still a guessing game.

smoketember is upon us

Years of hot summers and smoky forest fires usually mean leaden skies and terrible air by August.
This year the smoke held off until this weekend, but Smoketember is fully here.

A grass fire along highway 104 nearly deterred us yesterday from a cabin visit. Two yellow-suited firefighters stood watchfully by as we passed a thin smolder of smoke.

In the parking lot of a grocery store, the sky glowed ashy gray and neon reflected in the premature dusk. My phone blared with an "Imminent extreme alert" from a nearby county, regarding an evacuation order.